


One Promise

by shxme



Category: League of Legends
Genre: :), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Aromantic Character, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trust Issues, documented Struggling, enemies to friends to soulmates, idk fo sho tho, im trying to experiment, language barriers, oof ouch owie, prolly smut later, taloncentric and he's got ISSUES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shxme/pseuds/shxme
Summary: The only thing Talon wants is the sky.He doesn't want friendship, or a fated soulmate, or any of the trouble that comes with it.The only thing Talon wants is the sky, and the only thing in his way is the wind.
Relationships: Talon Du Couteau/Yasuo
Comments: 55
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prolly tweak summary later who knows. this is only rated as M for now but that might change later... 
> 
> it's in the tags but perhaps worth noting that i always write talon as aro. in a soulmate-centric universe i'm sure you can imagine this generates some conflict.
> 
> big thanks to a friend on tumblr for sparking this idea. o.o

_(His life is a tower.)_

_(Find something tireless. Neverending Noxian stone is gray and immovable. The tallest building in a sprawling, spidery city that’s survived a thousand years of history. So tall, in fact, that any onlooker would have to crane their head to see the end of it.)_

***

The process of meeting someone has never appealed to Talon. In fact, an idea has struck him on darker nights that he might be altogether unsuited for that sort of thing. Every important encounter that Talon’s had has been terse and tense and better yet—short. To the point. A knife digging into warm skin. One strike—dead, and nothing else.

Blood has soaked into the hem of his sleeve. Talon will have to scrub that out later. He only has one set of Ionian clothes after all, though it wouldn’t be hard to find more. 

Busy cities in Ionia are nothing like Noxian cities. Noxian streets are claustrophobic. Buildings are jutting and angry. There is warmth but you need to know where to look, and there certainly hadn’t been any where Talon had grown up. (At some point you learn there’s no use in looking anyway.) But Ionian cities are soft. The houses and shops are dotted with hanging lanterns and warm light. Many stores and tea houses are wide open, inviting the bugs and the evening air inside. Quiet music echoes through the streets, plucked from unknown strings. Talon doesn’t understand it. It’s dangerous to be so welcoming. Did they learn nothing from the invasion?

His sleeve is damp against his skin. Clearly not. 

_(Existing at the top, where the sky and the world are nearly touching, is Talon. The wind drags claws up his back, yanks at his clothes, promises the most wonderful view if he only dares to come closer.)_

Pulling the hood of his cloak lower, Talon weaves quietly through the crowd. Despite his clothing he feels like he sticks out. He definitely doesn’t look very Ionian and he can’t speak the language. The few words he does know would be caught by his accent and Talon doesn’t believe in getting caught. That’s one of his personal tenets, broken only a few times, but still more than he’d like to admit. It can’t solely be understood as “caught in the act.” That idea is too forgiving. When he thinks of the word _caught_ he thinks of ice down his spine that tells him there’s nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. Dead end.

A blade has found its way into his grip again and Talon tucks it away. Now is not the time. There will be no chance of suspicion from any Ionians whatsoever. He crosses by a stand where a man and a woman are laughing together, fingers intertwined. Talon glances at them in passing. Are they soulmates? He can’t help but wonder every time he sees a couple. It’s some sort of game, to try and figure out if they’re fated or not. Only once has Talon been certain. A season ago in Demacia he’d spied two matching marks and their owners. He remembers waiting there, perched on a nearby rooftop, watching for the magic. Looking for whatever it was that made their relationship special. What made it so different from the people who chose not to wait? 

For almost an hour Talon had observed them sitting together at the lip of a fountain, matching marks bared on their skin proudly. The longer he’d watched, the less he’d understood. 

They’d been totally—undeniably—in love, that’s for sure.  
  


He tucks his knife away again. Autumn air is thick in his lungs and he measures his breathing. Long and low, as if he’s still on the hunt. Technically he is. The traitorous Noxian he’d just killed had offered no insight on his true target. No matter. Talon will hunt down every treasonous dog until he finds the one he’s after.

He looks up at the dark sky. Find the traitor, _kill_ the traitor, then back to Noxus and the general—and then another task, maybe somewhere else. Demacia again? Talon doesn’t know why the general trusts him with such sensitive missions. That’s something he’s never fully understood.

He’d been told, once, that _“others fall short where your steel still reaches.”_ That explanation is not enough for Talon. A mere month after being uprooted from the streets he’d been sent on a perilous assignment of utmost secrecy. After that, a new job. And after that one—

He still remembers that abysmal task. The horrific, world-ending swell of failure is still raw, even today. It’s jarring to understand that for the first time— _ever_ —he had disappointed someone other than just himself.

On darker nights Talon knows that’d been the closest he’d come to dying. The closest he’d ever been to wanting it.

Maybe he’s trusted because Talon doesn’t ask many questions. But there _must_ be more than just that. Thinking about it doesn’t get him very far. He would like to consider the idea that he’s better than every other assassin, but he isn’t. Not _yet_. 

_(At the edge of the tower the pressure of being alive is an aching, endless fall.)_

A handful of newcomers are still trickling in through the city’s western entrance. Here to visit the festival, whatever it is they’re celebrating. Talon barely looks at them on his way out. A short woman, an old father leading his two children, and lagging far behind, a swordsman. Talon glances behind him once he passes to get another look at the blade strapped to the man’s waist—

—except he sees it.

Dark and unmistakable, even by lantern light. Sharply edged, thin, imprinted on the lower left side of the man’s exposed back just above his hip like a curse—might be a curse. It’s a symbol that Talon could recognize in his sleep because he knows it—he knows it because it’s _his._ That’s _his._

A narrow, gently curving feather. More angular on one side, barely longer than his thumb. His _soulmate_ mark. 

A mark that now belongs to someone else.

One of his knives has arrived in his palm and this time Talon tenses his grip around the hilt til his knuckles are white and his arm is trembling. He is nauseous, suddenly. He feels almost robbed because—how _dare_ this man have what’s his? Before—before—he can’t think straight, every thought collides with each other in his head. 

What are the _chances?_ In all of Runeterra what are the chances of running into the _one_ person who’s supposed to be his other half? Before—before—he locks his knees to keep from shaking. Remains rigid and still as the man continues down the road into town. He’d paid no attention to him. 

Hadn’t spared a single look.

From Talon’s limited understanding, soulmates are supposed to be _special._ A bolt of lightning, a rush of _true love._ Heart throbbing, soul pounding romance.

He feels sick, skin crawling with some unknown horror. Before—he rubs his thumb along the flat of his knife. _Before_ he could have pretended that he was alone and that he wasn’t inexplicably connected to someone he would never meet.

_Before_ he could believe that there was no one alive to tie him to the ground.

Calm is a casket closing and it settles over him slowly. Although his entire world has broken open, less than a minute has passed. He watches the swordsman wander into the crowd and disappear from sight

Who is this stranger? To have his mark? Talon looks down at the blade in his hand. He doesn’t really know what he’s feeling. There’s too much to process at once. Maybe it’s not really his. _Maybe_ it’s just very similar. People _can_ have similar marks, on occasion. He could convince himself of that—and leave, and go about his mission and forget what he thinks he saw.

For a long minute Talon stands, frozen in the road, deathly still. Finally he hides his knife away and starts back towards the city.

***

_There’s no point._ The thought repeats itself in his head over and over. _There’s no point to this at all._ His mark in this town is already dead and rotting. A surprise waiting to be discovered in the inn room where he lays. There’s no good reason for Talon to return. He should already be on his way to another city. On his way to carve answers from a doomed man.

But here he is anyway. Slipping through the crowd in search of something he’s never wanted. He scans the groups of people huddled around the street vendors, hunting for the swordsman. How’d he look? A big ponytail, dressed in scrappy blue. Talon really can’t picture him well but he’ll recognize him when he sees him. He darts in and out of a few nearby tea houses. _Can’t have gone far._ The people in the streets are starting to grate on his nerves with their incessant chatter. And there’s too many of them. He notes every alley and exit as he retraces his steps, just in case. 

After a few more minutes he’s worried that the swordsman has somehow disappeared, until _finally_ he spies the man’s bushy hair. That’s _him_ , exiting a warmly lit shop not too far away. Talon’s mouth is dry. He tails him through the crowd, following long behind the man. Does he live here? Is he staying here? As Talon continues following him he tries to glimpse the mark on his back. At first he can’t make it out but as he follows the man to the other side of the city the crowd thins and by the lantern light Talon is able to see it. 

His heart sinks. It looks the same as his. He squints, stares.

It _must_ be the same _._ His head’s starting to spin again and he ducks behind a sloping house to hold his knife and breathe. 

How _awful_. What would the general say if he saw him dismantled by someone he hasn’t even met? Not even by combat but by just _existing_. Talon pushes his bangs out of his eyes. His skin’s still crawling from just the mere idea. How _pathetic._ He tilts the blade to see it glint in the moonlight. 

_I could kill him._ The thought burrows its way into his head. _Whoever he is, he could be nobody. He could be nobody by morning. I could make sure of it._ Talon’s done it plenty of times, and then he’d have nobody to even bother thinking about. 

He turns to peek around the corner at the road. The stranger is a lonely shadow as he leaves the town, path nearly empty. If Talon doesn’t hurry he might lose him. 

The assassin glances up at the stars. 

He doesn’t have enough time to think, so he follows. 

***

The Ionian lives. Fighting against better judgement and mild nausea, Talon continues to tail him, perhaps the most careful he’s ever been. Thankfully the empty road cuts through a forest of towering trees and Talon gives the stranger a very wide berth, tracking him from the comfort of the woods. Late that night when the stranger finally stops to sleep by the roadside Talon climbs into the arms of a red leafed oak and watches, and waits.

For what? He doesn’t know. Maybe anything.

He doesn’t sleep much. A mixture of pent up energy, never ending thoughts, and the fear that he’ll oversleep keeps him from resting properly, and as the sky starts to lighten he catches his first good look at the stranger while he’s still asleep in the grass. He’s not _terrible_ looking, Talon admits. He looks, in a single word, weathered. Like a traveller who’s spent too much time away from home. Talon’s a little far, but he can still glimpse his features from his roost. Not _entirely_ ugly. A disappointing acknowledgement. At least the sword by his side is far more alluring than he is. Talon imagines holding it. Would it carry weight if he swung it through the air? Or would it glide lightly in his grip? Blades have always fascinated Talon. People come and go and a sharp edge will make sure they stay gone because he’s always found more success alone. No matter the situation Talon can trust the embrace of his cloak and rely on the safety of his knives. You can’t do that with people.

Wind rustles the leaves around him as the swordsman stirs, waking up to the sunrise. Talon watches as he picks grass out of his wild hair and ties up his bedroll, completely unaware that he’s not alone. When he stretches Talon spies the dark spot on his back that must be his soulmark. 

So where is it? Talon is still waiting for the rush of—feeling. Where is the flood? He’s supposed to be swept off his feet, absolutely heartsick because he’d found his _soulmate._ Sick is definitely the word to use here.

 _He looks—_ Talon eyes the man’s frayed clothes critically _—messy._ He measures his breathing, willing away impending queasiness. Killing him is still an option. Talon could descend from the trees and hook his knives into him and end him. 

Or— _totally—undeniably—in love—_ the road _does_ go in the direction of some cities Talon needs to visit. He could always _—_ leave him alive. For now.

 _There’s no point._ He repeats to himself. There would be no point in it. It’d be more efficient to gut him and go. But—there’s also no _harm_ in it. It’s getting hard to sort through his thoughts again. Talon isn’t one to bother with complex decisions. He only ever thinks for himself so it’s suddenly challenging to manage his thoughts when they’re centered around someone else. 

If he—wanted to. The proposal starts to organize itself in his head. 

If he _wanted_ to he could let him live, for now, because at any point he could be done with him. Soulmates don’t interest Talon in _that_ way, but they’re still interesting nonetheless. Because why would the gods—or whatever higher powers that decide these things—pair them together? Do they know something Talon doesn’t? What’s the meaning behind it? This Ionian might already have a family, _kids_ even. Talon’s nose wrinkles at the idea of it.

  
_Fine,_ he decides. He’ll track this man for a little longer. Maybe Talon will learn something about himself. If not, and even if he does, there will always be the option to cut his losses, and forget.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey we're back !
> 
> quick note: this is set at a point of time where yasuo is not dealing with things the greatest
> 
> ill re-edit this chapter later but i had to get something out before i disappear for finals.

_(There are no words to describe this feeling.)_

He has reason to suspect, after half a day of careful shadowing, that his “soulmate” is a drunkard. Talon thinks this because as the day has grown longer the man’s pace has become more and more—aimless. His feet wander left and right across the road and he takes long drinks from the waterskin tied to his waist. At this point Talon strongly suspects that it’s not water inside at all.

This is really what the universe came up with? He can’t help but feel bitter about it. Whatever higher powers exist above have decided that the _perfect_ match for him is a bum, unless the Ionian is hiding a family in the town they’re nearing. But what does that mean for Talon? Is he worth so little to be paired with someone so threadbare?

The town they stop in only _seems_ tiny compared to the one from yesterday. The real scope of it is hidden in the surrounding forest where buildings blend into wood and leaves as if they’d grown there in the first place. Talon likes the way it looks. It’s so different from not only Noxus but also every Ionian city he’s been to so far. Though—every Ionian city tends to be unique from each other. The only thing their buildings share is curving, climbable architecture, built in such a way that eyes tend to wander. Talon in particular is prone to picking out footholds and handholds and every other exploitable crack he could possibly wedge his fingers into. 

He watches the swordsman stumble into what _seems_ to be a tea house of some sort, if the gentle Ionian laughter coming from inside is anything to go off of. Whatever it is, it’s still not a home. The stranger might not live here either. No matter. This window of time gives Talon the opportunity to continue on with his mission. His _primary_ objective. He sneaks nimbly across the rooftops, a ghost beneath the canopies. Has to be quick here, just in case. Higher above him is an empty rope bridge that connects several tree-houses together. When Talon reaches it the bridge swings beneath his weight but he’s not afraid.

Where would the council hall be? Almost every village has one. He glances down, where the tea house still bubbles with noise below. A pair of children play in the grass, chasing after each other like squirrels. From his vantage point all the buildings on the ground, grown like trees and woven with leaves, look similar in size and style. Nothing stands out as an important building. It must be higher still. Talon looks up, cracks one knuckle thoughtfully under his thumb. A _light_. He finally sees a tree-house that stands out. Built so far up on an endless oak that Talon wonders how it could be practical at all. His eyes trace the network of bridges above him lower and lower until he sees the path. _That will take too long,_ he quickly decides.

He must be fast, he must be direct. In cases like this Talon must climb. 

( _Maybe it can only be defined indirectly.)_

_(So what’s it feel like? He struggles with words, even in his head. Some things are too hard to explain, and anyway Talon usually never has to explain things to anyone except himself. Overthinking will kill you. A bad fall will kill you. A crucial mistake will kill you. A man will kill you—if you don’t kill him first.)_

Talon hauls himself through the open window of the tree-house. It’s grand in size compared to the other buildings but he’s not here to admire it. Council halls often have documents. Letters and lists and damning correspondence. It’s no secret to the empire that some Noxians have given up on war. Not just war, their entire country.

Well—the building curves along with the massive tree trunk and on the other side he locates the meeting room. A wide chamber with flowering windows and a large table stacked with papers. 

Betrayal isn’t an issue. Not to him at least. Not in _that_ way. Talon doesn’t care for the allure of honor or otherwise but when the general sends him to do something, he does it. Not only to ensure his survival, but because it feels important to be trusted with something for once.

On darker nights he thinks too much. Broods over the word _Why_ until it’s meaningless. 

He flips through the stack of papers. A lot of it is largely unreadable. Ionian is incomprehensible to Talon. What he’s looking for is sharp Noxian script, maybe a seal, maybe a crest. After another minute he finds it. It’s a Noxian letter. Talon squints as he reads it. The message details some large plans at the southern islands and mentions talking with _others._ Talon frowns at that. How many more? A web of defectors lie hidden among everyday Ionians. Some of them (such as the author of this letter, he notes) have been already taken care of. 

Talon scours the rest of the stack but out of the few other Noxian reports he finds, none contain the name he’s looking for. _No leads here either._

A little annoyed now, he hurries to leave the way he came. He’d spent too long here. Reading doesn’t exactly come easy to him and he’d burned too much time finding out basically nothing. 

***

At least in a stroke of good luck the man’s timing is nearly perfect. By the time Talon’s descended to near-ground level he spies the swordsman drifting halfway down the road, bumbling maybe—slightly less? Or about the same. Talon can’t tell, really. 

_Pathetic,_ he decides sourly. He’s beginning to doubt that this man has any family. If he did, wouldn't he be more focused on getting to them rather than visiting towns just to refill his waterskins?

His spite brews darker and more resentful as the awful day drags on. He’d be way more efficient on his own without having to guard his steps in the grass. And the blood on his sleeve has yet to be washed out. What a waste of a day, and where are they _going?_ There’s a blade in his hand and Talon considers the welcoming edge of it against his thumb. He’s tired. The lack of sleep is trying to catch up to him, especially after his foray into the trees. Perhaps this is the end of the road for his _“soulmate."_ Talon’s lip curls. This man is made for alcohol. Not him.

_(It feels like the day is holding him down.)_

The sun is slowly inching towards the horizon when the wind changes. A group of five people slowly approach, going the opposite way of Talon and the stranger. They don’t look like average travellers, Talon notes. Their weapons and mossy hoods suggest highwaymen or mercenaries. The forest has started to thin out by now and Talon crouches low in the brush. They’re probably more attentive than the drunkard. It’d be best to wait for them to pass. 

Except they don’t. Talon watches with narrow eyes as they stop in front of the man. The leader, a smiling woman, greets him in cold Ionian. Talon knows the smile is fake. Can tell from the way the rest of her men fan out around the swordsman. 

His “soulmate” says something back and Talon _does_ creep forward a little, uncomfortable sickness beginning to prickle in his stomach. The man sounds twice as exhausted as Talon feels and deeper than he expected. His hand rests casually on the hilt of his sword and Talon wonders how far this will go. If he dies here, fine. He won’t care. That’ll be less work for him.

The Ionians continue to talk and Talon fails to pick anything useful out of their words. They’re talking too fast for him and the woman is no longer smiling. One of her henchmen slides a shortsword out of his scabbard. 

The stranger sighs, shoulders sagging low. Delightful anticipation washes away some of Talon’s bad mood as the man drums his fingers just once on the end of his hilt and pulls out his sword.

_(It feels like diving into a freezing, Freljord river.)_

_A narrow blade,_ Talon thinks, wide-eyed. _A precise blade._ It’s his last coherent thought before the song of metal against metal robs all of his attention. Not only that, but the _wind._ It screams through the surrounding forest and collects itself on the man’s sword. The Ionian knocks his opponent's weapon away and suddenly he is light on his feet. Talon stares as he dashes past his attackers, dark hair bobbing, wind _howling_ behind him. An almost-cyclone kicks up dust and dirt and the raging gales even reach Talon, biting his cheeks and nose, yanking on his bangs. Nearby trees sway and bow, leaves trembling violently.

He’s never seen anything like it. Talon ducks lower to the ground, clutching his cloak tightly to himself to keep it from whipping against surrounding bushes. His own breath is stolen away. Can’t even hear himself think over the wind. He closes his eyes, knuckles white around his knife and the hem of his cloak. With his eyes shut—it’s impossible to focus on anything else.  
  


It sounds like the sky.

Needless to say, the fight does not last long. When Talon looks up again he sees the man is alone on the road. Two bodies are at his feet, the rest must have fled. He sheathes his sword and Talon lets out a shaky breath, heart pounding between his ears. What was _that?_ This man is new. He’s vastly more impressive than the wandering drunk Talon’s been following for two days now. 

As if he’d heard his faint exhale, the Ionian abruptly turns. He peers into the surrounding forest as though for once he knows he’s being watched and Talon goes rigid in the tall grass, becomes nothing at all. 

Eventually the man sighs again. He reaches for the waterskin at his waist and steps over the two bodies to continue down the road. 

***

Talon’s mind is tireless. What _was_ that? He’s well aware of magic and the impossible but the events of that afternoon had blown him away. Talon doesn’t like the Ionian still but—he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enamored with the way his sword cut the wind. Enamored isn’t the best word to use, of course, but he can’t come up with a better alternative. He wants to see that sword again and feel wind sear his skin and hear it—

For a moment magic had breathed life into the swordsman and Talon had seen more than just a spiritless traveller.

Now he sleeps by the roadside again. Talon can’t believe his recklessness. _What if the others come back? You aren’t far enough away to be safe._ They’d only journeyed for a couple hours longer, after all. Anyone could track him up the road and find him asleep and vulnerable. _It’s like you want to die,_ Talon notes. _Not by me. Not yet._ He carves shallow notches into a hanging branch as he waits, high up in his roost. 

Before the fight he’d been planning on it. It’s still not out of the question, either, to end him entirely. However— 

_It shouldn’t be this complicated._ Talon scratches his leg, annoyed again. Everything feels grittier now. Messier. He counts his breathing and tries to clear his head. What’s he said? _Overthinking will kill you._ His head falls back against the trunk behind him and he rubs his eyes. His soulmate—Talon shivers, pulls his hood up—is a still shadow on the ground. 

If he crept down and took his sword, could he have the wind too? Instinct tells him _no._

On darker nights Talon wonders if he’s cursed to fight tooth and nail for even the littlest things. It gets so tiring having to work twice as hard as others who are born into magic and accomplishment. _Of course,_ Talon muses, cutting another notch, he’d be long dead without his own efforts and he’s proud of how far he’s come. _One of the best assassins in all of Noxus. Even better than my own flesh and blood._ That’s what the general had told him. Talon’s highest praise. 

Another notch. _The best_ assassin, one day. Then the general won’t have anything critical to say to him. “ _Flawless,”_ he might even say instead of the usual fault-finding. _Flawless,_ and nothing else. 

  
Maybe then, in the silence, Talon might rest, comfortable and alone with the knowledge that he is untouchable and unbeatable and _unknowable_ as anything other than—perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (use and non-use of quotation marks is intentional. also, i am not here to paint the general in a good light.)
> 
> we were supposed to meet yasuo this chapter but it ended up too long so that'll be next chapter u.u i hope you guys don't mind all the dives into talon's character. he's got a LOT to unpack and i usually don't write detailed stuff from his perspective so it's fun to sort his character the way i see it in canon. (with a couple small additions). he's super complicated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lead, a regretful plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finished, edited + posted this on mobile so forgive any weird formatting errors lol. i tried to get em all out but ehhhhhhh.

Early the next morning, just before dawn, the man stirs. From the way he moves Talon gets the impression that he didn’t sleep well. There’s something about his swinging, sluggish movements that radiate tiredness. Talon himself feels no better. He’d kept a silent watch over the swordsman, wary of the attackers from earlier returning. Not because he’s concerned about what happens to the Ionian but it’s simply impossible to relax if there’s any chance of a threat. Now Talon is running on empty, eyes itching with exhaustion. He can’t _afford_ to be exhausted either, because the swordsman has already finished tying up his bedroll and is starting back on the road. 

This time, when he follows, Talon is slow. He trails the man even more carefully than before, forcing himself to measure his movements and prevent any tired mistakes. Mistakes are always deadly for Talon. Every error is marked by a scar and that terrible feeling of falling and failure. It’s sharper every time. A knife that’ll never dull.

The forest continues to thin out as they approach a new town built upon the edge of the woods and a riverbank. Talon is relieved when it first becomes visible between the trees because it hopefully means a period of time where he doesn’t have to worry about following anyone and can instead focus on the mission.

A lack of sleep has left him frazzled. It’s hard to concentrate on anything except how worn out he feels. Hopefully his drunkard of a soulmate will spend plenty of time refilling his waterskins in town and Talon will be able to breathe.

_(Maybe he’s tired of it.)_

The small city is bustling with mid morning activity. It seems to be a hub for craftsmen and all along the main street there are people setting out their wares on colorful mats. Stacks of woven baskets and fresh fruit are laid out next to ornate walking sticks. The smell of spicy street food tickles Talon’s nose and he wonders what they’re cooking. Anything would be better than the hardtack he’s been surviving off of for a few weeks now. 

It’s harder for him to follow the swordsman now. This is the worst type of crowd, where there’s not _quite_ enough people to blend in seamlessly. Talon sticks out and it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes that he doesn’t belong. Most Ionians hate Noxians. He knows that for sure. 

At least disappearing is easy. Once he’s tracked the swordsman’s wandering footsteps to a recently opened teahouse Talon escapes the busy main street. This city is bigger than the one in the forest yet smaller than the festival town from two nights ago. And it must have a council hall. Talon rubs his eyes as he continues. Logically it must be somewhere along the main road. While that does make the most sense Talon doesn’t want to be around all the Ionians. He prefers to do things by himself. On his own. He keeps an eye on the buildings as he maps out the streets closest to the main road. While the houses and shops are plenty varied in size, make, and color, the rooftops are all the same. They curve inwards on every side, almost as if they’re collapsing. Horribly inefficient, Talon notes, even if they’re interesting to look at. 

One rooftop _does_ appear different however. It slants higher than the others in a way that Talon can’t help but notice. Past the street market and stalls there’s a building that on closer examination must be the council hall. Elegant banners hang down from the windowsills, decorated with woven symbols. Talon has no idea what they mean.Unfortunately, the doors are wide open and it’s swarming with people. Talon is unaware of Ionian customs or occasions. If this is some sort of important proceeding then he wouldn’t know. Either way, it’d be exceedingly difficult and risky to try and search for information right now. 

Talon frowns. He walks a circle around the building. _There’s no way._ Unless he waited for the hall to empty, but he definitely doesn’t have that much time.

Once again slithering indecision strikes him. Before he’d only had to think about himself. _I still can,_ he knows. Could split away from his soulmate and let him go alone. Then Talon remembers the howling wind against his skin. He wonders, is it _bad_ to want that again? The general would probably say yes. Might encourage him to hurl himself from a tower, if he craved that feeling so badly.

He stews in silence, hugging the wall of a house behind him. In the end he should just abandon the swordsman. His quest given by the general is far more important. A soulmate is a waste of time and a trap for Talon. _There’s no point to this at all._ He juts out his lower lip. A trap that he’s already wasted two days being caught in, no less. His fated is such a disappointment too. Although—he will admit—maybe there was promise written on the man’s sword. Something less displeasing had been there for a single minute. Talon shouldn’t be hopeful about it. This entire situation is starting to feel suffocating.

The wall is a comforting weight against his back. Talon leans against it for a moment longer, hiding from passersby and the sun. The best things are sturdy, he finds. You can trust solid walls and thick trees before any person. A wall is one less angle that Talon has to watch out for.

There’s a commotion breaking out behind him. He steps back out onto the main street, lured by the sound of shouting. A bald man lies in the middle of the road, past the steps of a teahouse, clearly having just been thrown to the ground. His face is red with anger and he shouts something in Ionian, scrambling to get back on his feet.

In front of him sways the swordsman, face just as red, if not more. He kicks dirt onto the fallen man’s robes and roars something with all the gentleness of a raging drunk. _Drunk._ Talon’s lip curls. He stares openly, just another face among the crowd. This is yet another side of his soulmate and it’s an ugly one. Still, Talon understands that there is no intention of a real fight. The Ionian’s hands are everywhere but his sword as he shouts, gesturing wildly. He’s always been so calm, even during the brawl yesterday. Talon is—oddly enough—embarrassed at the sight of him, hair unkempt, face flushed, staggering. _Enough_. Bitterness returns. _This_ is supposed to be his other half. What a joke. 

The onlookers have also decided to step in. A few town guards push through the growing crowd, bright sashes indicating them as peacekeepers. Talon watches as they converse, loud and with authority. His soulmate wobbles on his feet, drunker than ever, and the bald man spits on his sandals which almost incites more violence until the guards draw their swords. Short, rounded blades that gleam in the sun. Talon wonders if now the man will fight for real. A part of him hopes that he’ll show them all the wind, just so Talon can feel it too.

Instead, the swordsman goes quietly, stumbling off between the two guards like a whipped dog. Talon wonders why they didn’t take the other man too. He trails behind them, using the flow of now disinterested townspeople to blend in. 

_(Maybe he’s exhausted.)_

On the other side of the town a building stands with the same sloping roof. This time its walls are made of rough-hewn stone. It’s a jail, though barely that because it’s tiny, only slightly bigger than the surrounding houses. Noxian prisons are massive structures, tall and ominous enough to be a warning for anyone that dares to be caught. Talon doesn’t follow them in. This part of town is far less crowded so he slips between the houses to wait, finds his knife. Knives are always there for you, he’s learned.

When the guards exit the building—alone—his suspicions are confirmed. Talon lets out a breath, almost in relief. _Not my problem anymore._ His wretched excuse for a soulmate has been locked up for who knows how long and that gives Talon the excuse to forget about him entirely. A weight has lifted off his chest. It’s so _easy_ to decide what to do now.

He exits the city, back to the safety of the woods. A rest. He _needs_ a few hours rest, not only to wait for the council hall to be less busy but to keep his eyes from burning. _“Rest is vital. To stay alert is to stay alive.”_ He can hear the general’s wise words in his head. Feel him rap the back of his knife against Talon’s wrist. _“You’re useless if not at your best.”_

If the general knew what he’d been doing, getting distracted and chasing a fool’s errand—Talon wiggles a blade between his fingers. _Pathetic._ The word feels sharper this time, in his tiredness. Why does he do that? Too often he finds himself knowing what he has to do, what he _should_ do—and then he ends up doing something different. It’s a fault that’s followed Talon like his shadow. If he wants to be the best—flawless—he’s got to cut out every weakness. That’s his _only_ chance at reaching the highest rungs of perfection. His soulmate is a glaring mistake. One that he’s glad to be rid of.

As sleep finally overtakes him Talon does not think of the sword. Or the wind. Or the man it belongs to.

***

_(Why does staying alive have to be so hard? Sometimes he entertains the thought of resting for days in an open grave.)_

_(Not because he wants to die, but the day Talon relaxes might as well be the day he dies._

_Picture—perhaps—a grassy knoll surrounded by tall trees.)_

He’d awoken under the stars confused, initially feeling out of place and time in a way that only fitful rest can supply. For a couple more stolen minutes after that he’d been still, blinking away the unnerving guilt that follows him whenever he sleeps. The moon stares overhead. It’s time to move.

Breaking into the empty hall is easy now. Under the cover of nightfall there are no people—Talon thinks it’s past midnight—and it’s easy to slip in through a window. This building is bigger than the previous one and Talon spends some time waiting for his eyes to adjust and trying to understand the layout. There’s a central chamber that he’d judge as a courtroom and adjoining halls loop together around it. In the back he finds a meeting room, characterized by many shelves and a long table that Talon bumps his leg against. By the moonlight streaming from the (thankfully plentiful) windows he finds three fresh stacks of scrolls and papers. The assassin scowls at them, dismayed. There’s so _many._ He brings the first stack by the window and starts flipping through them. No traces of anything Noxian. No seals, crests or sharp letters. In the next stack he finds one Noxian letter but it’s the same leak about the southern islands. Unimportant.

In the final pile, at the end of a letter written in Ionian, he comes across the signature he’s been searching for. _Kaligo,_ inscribed with the same harsh linework that Talon has memorized. He silently mouths the name as he reads it. The traitor Commander Kaligo wrote this letter. Or at least he signed off on it. As of this year he’s perhaps the highest ranking Noxian official to ever defect. Holding the paper close by the window, Talon fights to understand it. Kaligo’s signature is the only recognizable word he picks out. There’s just no hope of reading it. Some Noxian soldiers _can_ translate Ionian but Talon is operating outside the command and knowledge of everyone except the general. He hurriedly sorts through the rest of the papers, searching for other pages with the same elusive name. There are none.

A solution emerges. With it, a wave of sudden sickness. He’d been _done_ with him. One of his knives glints in the moonlight. Talon flips it across his fingers. He’d been pleased to abandon his catastrophe of a soulmate and it’d been right to put an end to his idiotic time wasting. Chasing a dream that doesn’t exist. A foul dream at that. The idea of it makes his stomach turn.

_But maybe he could read it._ Talon suddenly flinches as his blade glances off his knuckle and clatters to the floor. He sucks on his finger, devouring iron. For one hateful second he doesn’t care. He could drop everything and leave and no one—not his soulmate, not the general—could find him. 

_Except he did find me._ Talon still remembers that day. It’d been storming and his body had felt—on fire. No amount of rain had eased the burn. He still remembers the vibrant pain from not just the injuries but the emotional shock of _losing._ Of getting _caught._

He’d expected only death.

Talon picks up his knife delicately, almost apologetically. The general trusts him with this. There’s no point in overthinking an easily evident solution. 

_(Maybe the trees are Ionian. Talon prefers the forests here over the ones in Noxus. Maybe the trunks are pale with peeling bark and plenty of welcoming branches.)_

The closer he draws to the jail, the worse he feels. Measuring his breathing only helps to a point. Talon recognizes this feeling. He used to get this way when climbing, years ago. It is the moment on the lip of a building when the world looms dangerously close. Whispers _“one wrong step.”_

To ease his worry, Talon decides two conditions.

The first is adamant. _I won’t tell him_. Talon rubs his leg. He won’t tell the Ionian that they’re soulmates. He’ll never know and it’ll remain as unimportant as it’s always been.

 _I’ll kill him,_ he promises himself second. It’s a certainty that he can’t deny any longer. How is he supposed to be elite and untouchable if he’s living in someone else’s mind? A person that doesn’t even know him might dream about him. The thought makes Talon’s skin crawl. He doesn’t want to belong to someone that hasn’t met him. On darker nights he thinks he might not want to belong to the world at all. His soulmate is a stone weighing him down. 

_(He wouldn’t be opposed to that.)_

The inside of the jailhouse is tiny. It consists of only four stone cells and a short hallway between them. At the end of the hall a jailor sleeps in his chair next to a sickly oil lamp. Talon slits his throat before he stirs and the man dies in seconds, slumped over his desk as if he’s still asleep. Talon cuts the string of keys free from around his neck, clutching them tightly to keep them from jingling together. His keen eyes catch sight of a familiar weapon leaning against the wall. 

_Oh._ He puts the keys down in order to pick up the _sword,_ hidden in its sheath. He grasps the bound hilt almost reverently, holds it close to inspect it. It doesn’t quite fit in his grip. Not like his knives. But maybe—

He pulls the blade free and the cramped hall suddenly feels claustrophobic. As if the sword belongs outside. 

There is no wind. Talon exhales. He’d been holding his breath without realizing it. The weapon is lighter than expected but it carries none of the grace that the swordsman wielded. And certainly none of the wind. Talon tilts it in the lowlight, swings it slowly and deliberately through the air. Nothing. 

Bitterly he sheathes the sword and straps it to his back, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. Right. He picks up the keys again and grabs the oil lamp.

 _I won’t tell him. I’ll kill him._ Talon unlocks every cell one by one. The first is empty. The second as well. In the third cell he instantly recognizes the Ionian’s bushy dark hair. He’s asleep on his side, maybe even drunk.

Talon finds a comforting knife in his hand. _Pathetic,_ he hears the general say.

He presses the cold tip of his boot against the man’s cheek. _Get up._ He thinks the words, doesn’t say them. It’s too hard to say them yet. Instantly the man stirs. In the dim light Talon can’t see his eyes but he can tell that he’s awake, rolling onto his back with a confused and drowsy grunt.

A breath of silence.

Talon raises the lantern. “Get up.” He speaks aloud in Noxian this time. From this angle he catches the gleam of the man’s stare and a chill travels down Talon’s spine. The whole world is looking up at him. Idly he wonders if his soulmate hates Noxians.

He backs up to the open doorway, not turning his back on the Ionian. Dirt is smudged on the man’s cheek. 

_I did that,_ Talon thinks. 

“Now.” He flashes the knife in his hand and steps clear of the doorway. The air is too stuffy in here. He needs to _breathe_. 

The swordsman slowly gets to his feet. Talon doesn’t know if he understands him at all but at least that doesn’t matter—yet.

Given the chance a caged bird always takes the sky, no matter who offers it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay we met yasuo for like a paragraph, sort of. there was going to be more but the chapter was too long already. the good thing is we’ll get to see some really terrible interacting next chapter. lots of yasuo content.
> 
> also there is a point to the story slowly unfolding in parentheses. it does mean stuff but i think im writing it pretty terribly right now so maybe later it’ll come around full circle lol. ;w; to be clear, by the end of the story everything in parenthesis should be able to be read together. 
> 
> talon is far too complicated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i finally get to write them interacting ;W;

_(The grass would be soft.)_

Not a single word passes between them until they’re well outside the city’s limits. Instead they have some sort of unspoken agreement that the escape must be made in tense silence. Talon walks several paces behind the man, quietly glad that even under the terrible moon it’s too dark to see the symbol on the man’s back. Every single part of him is on high alert, gaze flickering back and forth from the Ionian to the surrounding woods. Anything can lurk in long shadows. 

Scenarios play themselves out in his head. If his soulmate bolts then a knife will follow him. If he turns to fight then Talon will scatter and return a moment later to gut him. If he brings the wind—well, Talon doesn’t really know what he’d do yet. Probably some variation of the second scenario. But how do you fight air? He pictures the tornado in his head, imagines what else the man can do. It’s a wonder he’s been so compliant, so far. Perhaps he's confused as to why a Noxian would bail him out, or he might be very hungover. Or a mixture of both. 

At least he’s not queasy right now. Probably because Talon's too busy focusing on other things. “Other things” being _“everything."_ Something unexpected could happen at any point. What if he trips? What if the _swordsman_ trips? Since he’s walking in front of him that’s more likely. Situations continue to cycle through his head. What if he tries to fight him for the sword still strapped on his back? In the chance that he overpowers Talon, what then? (He's supposed to die, then.) One of Talon’s greatest assets is his stealth. He excels at swift and singular engages, drops like lightning, disappears like a ghost. Being visible and constant is as foreign as Ionia herself. 

_(Ideally Talon would be alone and no one would be able to find him.)_

The two of them have trekked for several hours along the edge of the woods. Due west, following the thick treeline away from any roads. As dawn starts to bring color back into the world, the man speaks. It sounds like he asks a question, from the way his voice tilts at the end.

"Shut up," Talon says tersely.

The man's ponytail bobs as he ducks his head. He looks back at Talon and in the growing light his face is rough and sharp. It hits Talon suddenly how _surreal_ this is. Here he is between the trees with his _soulmate_. Out of everyone in _all_ of Runeterra he's found the person that's supposed to complete him. A pining romantic would kill for what he has.

His soulmark sticks out on the man's bare back. Talon finds his eyes drawn there again and again. He already has the symbol memorized. Too many hours have been spent staring at his own skin for him to forget it. That doesn't stop him from searching for _some_ difference. If there was only a single missing detail that _proves_ they're not soulmates.

But the mark is—once again—unmistakable. The longer he looks the more he's sure. Delicate angles smooth into graceful curves on the tiny feather. Talon squeezes a knife in his hand to relax, steadies himself with a firmly bound hilt. He hates _looking_ at it. Walking behind is definitely safer but it’s a double edged sword because the soulmark is in plain view

The man speaks up again and this time he stops walking completely and turns around. Talon is instantly on guard. He shifts a little lower to the ground and steps back. What’d he say?

 _Shut up,_ Talon practices in his head but the words don’t leave his mouth this time. He notes the Ionian’s slumped posture, the dark circles around his eyes. 

The man makes a sweeping gesture and his voice tips up again. _A question._

Talon manages to talk this time. “Keep moving.” His voice is sharp, eyes are steel. There’s an Ionian word he knows, actually. The command for _forward_ , from a quick briefing on battlefield directions he’d been told to attend.

He repeats it, conscious of his accent, and the Ionian takes a tired step towards him, starting to answer.

“Stop!” Talon snaps, far louder than intended, so that even the forest goes quiet. He’s backed up, a blade flipped in his hand and ready to throw. Two more on his belt, one more by his boot. Those are just the easy reaches. What if he uses wind? Talon can throw perfectly through wind once he figures out what direction it’s going. He _hates_ this. 

Some sort or light leaves the man’s eyes. He steps back, hands raised apologetically in a universally non threatening gesture. As Talon watches he slowly lowers himself to sit down on the grass, still facing him.

They can’t stop now, it’s barely after _dawn_. Talon points past him, in the direction they’d been walking. “Forward,” he commands in Ionian.

The man combs his fingers through his hair and yawns. He shakes his head at Talon and says a single word he understands.

“No.”

Talon blinks. _No?_ He’s not giving him suggestions. As the one in charge he gets to call the shots. _“Forward,”_ he repeats again, this time pointing with his knife. Annoyance mars his otherwise emotionless tone.

“No.” And then a few more words that he doesn’t comprehend. The man pulls his bedroll off his back and starts to spread it out on the grass under the shadow of a gnarled tree. 

Talon frowns, taking a single step forward and nothing more. “I could kill you,” he threatens, voice growing quieter with each word as realization sinks in. _Are you asking to die?_ He already knows the answer. All Talon has to do is think back to the night spent on the roadside waiting for the mercenaries to return.

He’s suddenly unsure of how to proceed. Assassins don’t work with anyone, let alone take prisoners. Talon _hates_ this. What’s the procedure for dealing with someone who is not afraid of the end? Talon can’t possibly imagine what that’s like because thinking like that is too stupid. He stands frozen for a second, body rigid. It’s too much at once and he _hates_ dealing with people. Even the general has mentioned how Talon isn’t made to work with anyone. In the _daylight_ too. On any other assignment he would be strategically hidden away and safe from prying eyes. And he _wouldn’t_ be stopping at dawn. His soulmate is disappointingly weak in almost every way. 

Talon meets the other man’s gaze. His eyes are mud. 

_I won’t tell him. I’ll kill him._ He desperately wills away another bout of impending nausea. 

What’s going in the Ionian’s head? He’s probably still hungover and tired. Talon would be tired too, under normal circumstances. His mild rest earlier doesn’t negate all the sleeplessness he’s had before. However, right now he forgets to be exhausted and his body buzzes with pent up energy.

The swordsman might still be confused, considering that a Noxian freed him. Maybe he hasn’t decided on whether or not to be outright hostile. That could explain his compliance, until now.

More Ionian cuts him free from his thoughts and Talon flinches. The swordsman’s laying back, staring up at the sky. 

_I don’t know what you said._ How _annoying_. He can’t even kill him yet.

Talon almost speaks again to explain that they would _not_ be resting the entire day, but he doesn’t. There’s no point in wasting words if they’re not understood. Words are already hard enough. 

He climbs eventually, eyes still trained on the swordsman. Talon’s body moves automatically, fingers digging into vulnerable bark as he ascends a nearby tree. High enough to have a good view. Low enough to jump down quickly if he needs to. Even with all the scenarios and situations running through his head he hadn’t thought of this one. The idea hadn’t occurred to him because staying alive has always been the _most_ important thing.

On darker nights Talon thinks staying alive might be all he has.

_(He’d like that, for at least a little while.)_

Over an hour passes while Talon sits in his perch. He tries to smother his endless thoughts by counting each passing second and marking notches against a branch in order to keep track of how much time has passed. It feels pretty ridiculous to be waiting on his own _prisoner_ to take a nap. Although, after more consideration, that might be the wrong word. After all, Talon is no jailor. He’s a shadow in the wings. The _best,_ one day. At least the stomach-turning seems to be tapering off again. Stir crazy energy replaces it. Tireless stress circles in his head like a vulture. Eventually it’s too much. 

He drops down from the tree, purposefully louder than normal so as to hopefully wake up the swordsman without having to say anything. (At this point Talon is annoyed enough that he wouldn’t mind throwing something hard in his direction, if unsuccessful.) But it works. Either that or he’d been secretly awake. The forest around them buzzes with early morning life. Birds whistle and the leaves are alive with wind.

The swordsman sits up lazily, smoothing down his hair so that it doesn’t stick up so much. In the warm sunlight he almost looks friendly.

 _Forward._ Talon feels the word rising in the back of his throat but the other man speaks before he does. Asks him a question that Talon doesn’t understand. He stares back blankly, noting the way the man’s brown eyes drift over him, really sizing him up for what feels like the first time. No doubt he’ll want his sword and he’s already thinking of how to get it. Talon takes a step back. There’s maybe fifteen paces between them now.

The man speaks again, except this time Talon does catch something. _Noxian,_ at the end of it. He still sounds tired, but only because of the road and the day rather than raw exhaustion.

“I can’t understand you,” Talon says coldly, voice cutting through the air. He watches the swordsman (without a sword, only a man) start tying up his bedroll. He stands up and for an instant Talon takes in how _tattered_ he looks. His blue clothes are torn and dirty and only his pauldron denotes any type of value at all. His blade too, if he still had that on him.

The Ionian purses his lips, then he flattens his palm against his own chest. “Yasuo.” A single word spoken like a secret.

His _name_. A wave of dread washes over Talon. Knowing his name is already knowing too much. He clutches one of his trusted daggers like a lifeline, hatred swelling for the situation he’s found himself in. _I’ll kill him,_ Talon reassures himself. A name alone isn’t an enemy. After all, what's a blade without a name? All of his knives are called something or someone. 

He offers nothing in reply, just jerks his head in awkward acknowledgement. He _looks_ like a Yasuo, whatever that looks like. Talon’s forces himself to be still. There’s too much energy coiling through him and he’s far too tense but not without reason. Anything could go wrong. He’s still waiting for the man—for _Yasuo_ to call on the wind and fight. Talon almost wants him to. _Give me an excuse to kill you and I’ll take it._

Yasuo stares at him as if he’s watching for a different reaction, waiting for something. Probably his name in return. People always want it but his own name never matters, in the grand scheme of things, so Talon says nothing.

“You?” Yasuo finally prods, in surprising Noxian. Behind his stoic expression Talon is secretly glad that he can speak any Noxian at all.

“No.”

His soulmate’s eyes narrow. Cryptically, not angrily. A slow (almost relieved) smile crosses his face and Talon doesn’t understand why. With a broad, open movement he points to his right at a flowering bush. Fragile birds and bumbling bugs hover around the blooms. 

A single word in Ionian. Talon tries to figure out exactly what it is he’s pointing at. The flowers? No. He traces the motion with his eyes. 

Yasuo repeats the word again, firmly. It sounds like he’s expecting an answer. Talon thinks it must be the birds he’s pointing at.

“Noxian?” Yasuo adds, clearly unable to explain exactly what he means.

 _Oh._ Talon has no idea what they are. They’re tiny and buzz above the flowers, wings a blur as they hunt for food. The way they look and act reminds Talon of the birds he’d seen while in Valoran. Halfway through his journey to Alderburg a tiny blue crested bird had fluttered to a stop on his head, attracted by the bright red twine he’d used to tie the worst of his bangs back. It’d been— 

“A Hummingbird.”

The man’s arm swings out towards him, still pointing. “Hummingbird,” he repeats back in Noxian, a little mangled but fully coherent.

Talon blinks, confused, takes another step back. Why is he pointing? “No,” he snaps automatically, vaguely affronted. He is not. His body itches to be on the move. They’ve already wasted too much time with a _nap_ and now this pointless communication.

  
Reaching into his pocket, Talon pulls the letter out, stolen from the council hall. He unfolds it and holds it up. Yasuo squints at him.

“You have to translate this,” Talon orders. Maybe he’ll understand _something_ since he knows some Noxian words. 

The Ionian tilts his head. He holds his hand out, already beginning to grasp that Talon is full of boundaries. Smarter than he appears, but Talon already knew that from the wind. He slowly stalks closer, watching Yasuo carefully for any sign of change. Once he’s _just_ close enough he stops and passes the letter. The paper crinkles when Yasuo takes it and Talon stews in silence while he reads it, sees his brow furrow.

After a minute Yasuo looks at him and asks a question. Talon doesn’t know why he’s even still trying. 

He jerks his chin towards the letter. “In Noxian.”

Yasuo looks at him. He shrugs aimlessly, clearly not understanding. Maybe Talon is being a bit too vague. He doesn’t know what the letter says. It might even be useless, which would prove even more annoying.

“Kaligo—” Talon points at the name on the paper. He struggles to figure out what he wants to say in Ionian. “Forward—to Kaligo.” He feels like a fool. Words are too difficult, the whole situation is terrible, and the letter might be useless so it could have been better to just keep looking on his own. Talon _hates_ this.

But Yasuo brightens slightly at his words, as if he understands to some degree that Talon is looking for someone. “Kaligo,” he repeats, glancing back at the letter. “Oh.” 

_He’s not all alcohol,_ Talon consoles himself. _He can figure it out._ He shies a few paces away, just in case.

Yasuo looks up at the sun, studying its place in the sky. “Forward,” he speaks slowly. “To Shon-xan.” Once again his eyes flicker past Talon to the sword on his back. 

_Shon-xan._ Talon knows from the way Yasuo’s said it that it must be a place, but where is that? He doesn’t know. Shamefully enough he doesn’t remember seeing that on the map he’d memorized.

The Ionian slowly turns his back on him, beginning to walk into the trees, as if he doesn’t care that Talon is an armed stranger.

“Hummingbird,” Yasuo calls back for him and Talon grits his teeth, starts walking behind him.

“That’s not my name.” He twists the knife that’s ever-present in his hand, confused. Why’s he being so trusting? Sure he might not care about dying but then why did he fight the mercenaries on the road? Doesn’t he care about his sword? His magic must not be tied to it, if that’s the case. Or maybe he knows that Talon will follow. He _is_ smarter than he acts, unfortunately. Yasuo glances over his shoulder at him, to make sure he’s following, even if there’s a ten pace gap between them. This time his eyes reflect the light and Talon sees someone different. He can’t put his finger on how exactly, but it makes his stomach flip.

What if Yasuo leads him into a trap? Or what if he’d misunderstood? Talon chews on the corner of his lip. He’ll kill him, if that’s the case. He’ll kill him either way. At least he can follow him for a while, since there’s nothing nearby to indicate any danger. Talon wonders if they’re being hunted. He’d killed that jailor without a second thought so maybe there are soldiers looking for them. Or whatever the Ionian equivalent is.

  
 _“Yasuo,”_ he mouths while the man’s back is turned. It’s grudgingly nice to say, so Talon hates it. And he hates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry for the wait, school started up again. :(
> 
> there's a fair amount of fighting in this chapter.

_(Talon presses his hand into the grass. The daylight filtering through the treetops is dim and he prefers it that way. Soft shadows are elegant and mysterious and he likes that._

_There’s nothing pressing that he needs to do. No mission or obligation that he’s bound to by blood or grudge. Even so, even here, phantom weight is heavy on his shoulders.)_

_(It’s never this easy.)_

Around Yasuo it’s hard to stay quiet. Not because Talon wouldn’t prefer silence (he would) but because of how the Ionian pulls sound out of him. He’ll point at something along the way and drawl some meaningless Ionian word and when Talon doesn’t answer immediately he’ll glance back, repeat it to make sure he was heard. 

_“Tree.”_ Talon translates into Noxian, voice cold and far removed. _“Grass. Dirt. River.”_ He only humors Yasuo because he knows that this is useful for both of them. His soulmate knows _some_ Noxian but it could be considered the bare minimum. Sometimes Talon isn’t sure which word he means either. A finger towards the sky is also aimed towards the sun and the clouds after all.

Yasuo says another word as he glances back and this time he touches his own face. There’s something vaguely playful to his movements that Talon hasn’t seen before. As if a travel companion and the warm sun has taken some of the tiredness from his steps.

“Nose,” he translates sourly. Yasuo repeats it back, ugly but understandable. Maybe that’s just his whole character.

They’re backtracking once again towards the village that they’d left, following the river beyond the trees that Talon suspects they’ll cross eventually. He keeps a steady ten paces between them as they walk, one hand still on the loving hilt of his knife. At one point when the edge of the forest is running particularly thin Yasuo stops and points into the distance, past the town and plains. Faraway mountains are blurry with snow.

“Shon-Xan,” he says.

Talon squints. Is it on the mountain? Could even be beyond it. His thoughts spiral further. What if Kaligo is gone by the time he gets there? He could already be moving to another location. So how long will he have to travel with Yasuo? Though there’s no direct time limit on his assignment, Talon knows that the general is not a man to be kept waiting. 

Yasuo is looking at him, maybe at his sword too, and Talon nods, suddenly self-conscious. Whatever he needs to do to get this done. Privately, Talon thinks that his earlier assumptions were off. Perhaps the Ionian’s magic _is_ tied to his sword after all. That’s why he’s so cooperative. Because he’s looking for the perfect moment to get it back. Talon’s knives won’t stop the wind but they’ll stop the man behind them.

There is a pressure that’s slowly building up in the back of his head and it’s because of the soulmark staring back at him as they walk. Talon pulls the end of his hood lower over his forehead, guarding himself from the sun. Dried blood still stains his sleeve, annoyingly enough. Some deep seated and terrible curiosity wonders— 

_(“Hello.”_

_A single word floats through the air.)_

Yasuo abruptly halts as the wind changes directions. In an instant Talon understands why. Horses are echoing through the woods, trampling over branches and brush. At least two, likely four. The assassin’s mind goes into overdrive. _To stay alert is to stay alive._ He’ll berate himself later for detecting them too late. It sounds like they’re coming from deeper in the woods and Talon’s willing to bet that they departed from the village not far off. The pace _sounds_ urgent at least. His blade spins once in his hand as he thinks. Normally—

Normally he’d ascend a tree in the blink of an eye and once the threat appears he’d _really_ assess it and consider whether revealing himself was necessary at all. If it was he’d be quick. It’s almost effortless at this point to find a target’s delicate neck, the side of their head—the parts of them that betray once you sink something sharp into it. They would not know him.

Yasuo does not have that luxury. Yasuo wouldn’t be able to scale a tree or prepare an ambush before the horses and their riders stumble upon them. Talon knows this because if he himself is so close to _the best_ then there’s no way that this wandering Ionian will be able to keep up, even with his wind. Talon could of course escape into hiding by himself but that’d leave Yasuo exposed and by himself—he’s not used to thinking for two people.

“Hummingbird.” The man’s voice is tense. He gestures towards the sword on Talon’s back, takes one step forward only to watch him take one step away. 

_“No,”_ Talon hisses back. He doesn’t need this man’s help. Even in the open he’ll kill them as they come.

The first of the riders breaks through the tangled brush on a spotted gray mare. He carries a halberd and reminds Talon of the guards that took Yasuo away yesterday. Search parties must have already been sent out. He ducks low to the ground and the horse rears and in Talon’s mind he sees where the man’s fragile life connects. His dagger is lightning as it flicks up and sinks into the soft flesh of the man’s throat directly under his chin. Yasuo shouts in alarm as the rider gurgles, body slumping to the side, feet still caught in the stirrups as his horse canters away. 

_Flawless—_ Talon realizes. The word is wind beneath his wings.

He glances at Yasuo to his left as the next riders crash through the trees. A breeze tugs at his hair, not playful so much as frantic. The next two attackers also wield long halberds and this time their horses do not falter, charging forward without hesitation. _Two at once._ Talon spins to take Yasuo by surprise and kick him roughly to the ground. Better for him to be out of the way. By the time the Ionian has toppled into the shrubbery Talon knows his next target. The blade in his hand is slightly thinner and will travel differently. He throws it as he dives behind a tree, sends it whispering into the hollow of the rider’s throat. It won’t kill him instantly, but it’ll do enough. The man drops his weapon as his hands scramble to the hilt sticking out of him, like he can’t believe how easy it is to die. 

An enraged howl rips through the trees as the other rider bears down on them, spurred on by vengeance. His halberd cuts through the air where Talon had been just moments before. The horse screams as it circles, moving between the trees, thundering hooves tearing up chunks of dirt. For a moment Talon thinks he might see himself in its eyes, a pale face in the grass. Behind him—Yasuo is almost standing. And further back there is another— 

Talon finds a new knife strapped to his leg and sends it home into the rider’s chest. At the same time he lunges behind himself to knock his soulmate back to the ground. _At least two, likely four,_ he thinks, crashing heavily against Yasuo’s back. This time he’ll eat mud for sure. An arrow has sunk itself into the tree trunk next to them. Back by the first rider’s horse a new enemy knocks a fresh arrow to her bow, seated comfortably on a brown stallion. Talon breathes intuition. He rolls off of Yasuo and into the dirt to narrowly avoid the swing of the other rider’s halberd. It’s so close and low to the ground that he feels the edge clip against his cloak. 

The next blade leaves his fingers before he’s even realized it. Follows his eyes and instinct so closely that even with the archer trying to dodge it still splits her face open as if it means nothing. Talon exhales once it lands. 

The final wounded rider yells something in Ionian as he starts to turn again, emotion coloring his voice. It sounds like heartbreak. Talon imagines that this is not what they’d wanted. The four of them had probably been fueled by grief and revenge. No doubt they hadn’t expected to be picked off so easily. 

Talon lets one last dagger fly. It’s the final nail in the coffin and pierces the man in the side of his neck. He doesn’t cry out when he falls. Perhaps he understood that there was no point. Pathetic.

Everything is eerily quiet now. Not silent, for the horses trampling back through the woods in a frenzy are making plenty of noise, but every sound pales in comparison to the roar of adrenaline that exists in Talon. A stampede gallops in his chest. Or maybe a hawk is flapping it’s wide wings as it searches for higher skies. Fighting for one is stressful enough. Everything is made far worse in broad daylight and with someone else _._ For a moment Talon just wants to lay in the grass and be still—for at least a little while—but he can’t.

“ _Only the dead may rest easy,”_ the general has told him. _“And here you are painfully aware of what it means to be alive.”_

He gets to his feet quickly while Yasuo is still pulling himself from the dirt. How long will they have before more hunters are sent after them? Talon barely glances at Yasuo as he collects his knives. They slide out smoothly, smeared with blood. He’ll have to clean them later but right now Talon just wants to get out of here. 

“Hummingbird.” There’s an odd inflection in Yasuo’s words and Talon’s attention immediately snaps to him as he wanders closer. There’s dirt smudged across his face and his clothes look especially worse for wear now. Talon knows he doesn’t look too much better. His hood hangs back and there’s grass in his hair.

When Talon can’t figure out what he wants he speaks. “What?” His voice comes out jarringly blank.

Yasuo stops before he gets too close. There’s a strangely sober look on his face and Talon finally interprets it as a mixture of tired caution and worry. It’s satisfying to see. As if Yasuo finally gets that they really don’t _know_ each other (they will _never_ know each other) and that Talon could kill him far too easily. _I don’t need you to help me,_ Talon thinks, almost proud. _I can fell four on my own in broad daylight—without the wind._ Untouchable. What would the general say to that? He wipes his knives in the grass and sheathes them. There’s one blade lost in the first rider he’d killed, now carried away by his horse, but that can’t be helped. 

Ionian words are meaningless on his ears until Yasuo touches his own arm and points. Talon looks down at his shoulder. 

_Oh._

All of his pride evaporates. The halberd had landed after all. It hadn’t just clipped his cloak like he’d thought earlier. No, it’d torn through his sleeve just below the shoulder and left an ugly reminder that he is _not_ untouchable.

 _“An error.”_ He knows what the general would say to him now. _“One day your flaws will be fatal.”_

Something slips in his cold expression. He knows it because Yasuo’s eyebrows furrow as he picks up on it. Talon probes the wound with his fingers. Blood darkens the ripped fabric of his shirt.

_(He bolts upright, reaching for one of his daggers. Around him the forest is empty and welcoming._

_I thought it was only me, he thinks, panic blooming in his chest. It’s only ever been me.)_

The cut isn’t too deep, really more of a scratch, but now that the adrenaline is wearing off it stings. He can feel his whole arm throbbing with humiliating pain. 

Normally if Talon was alone he would hide and lick his wounds and deal with the rush of despairing failure as soon as it arrives. He always handles everything by himself. Sometimes, he notes, on the darkest nights it hits harder than any weapon. It twists and digs and spirals deeper and deeper until Talon wants nothing.

He’s learned to survive it because that’s all he can do. When the mornings finally find him in whatever hiding spot he’s roosted in he must get up—and continue.

But Talon is not alone and he currently has no time to wallow in his failures. He steels his face into an icy mask, forcing every damning emotion away. Yasuo could easily take this opportunity while Talon is wounded (even minimally) to fight for his sword. It’s not a bad time to pick a battle. In fact, it’d be a smart choice. Then what? Talon would still kill him.

“Forward,” he orders finally in Ionian, scanning Yasuo for any hint of movement. Any tenseness in his shoulders or a purposeful bend to his knees. They have to _go._ Before they run into anyone else. 

After a moment the Ionian nods, stiffer than before. He gives Talon a wide berth as he moves to one of the bodies in the grass. For a heart stopping second Talon thinks he’ll reach for a weapon and already a bloody knife spins in his fingers. Instead Yasuo takes the wineskin off the corpse’s belt. Talon almost wants to tell him to leave it but only the faintest sound escapes his mouth.

Yasuo glances behind him just once to make sure he’s following as he resumes the lead. Talon’s grateful that despite his appearance he catches on to things quickly. It’s admittedly much easier to travel with someone who knows to walk in front and give him space.

His wound stings. Inevitably he’ll have to clean and bandage it, once they’re far enough away for his mood to settle.

Some deep seated and _terrible_ curiosity wonders what Yasuo would think of him if he knew what they were. Would he be satisfied with Talon or would he prefer someone different? Perhaps a person who is soft and gentle. A soulmate who doesn’t melt into the crowd like himself, maybe fair haired and sunlight-soaking—enigmatic and bold. It’s a stupid question to even consider because deep down Talon knows that soulmates won’t work for the same reason that his stomach flips thinking about them. Although his interaction with people is admittedly lacking he has yet to know of a single soul that doesn’t want the undying affection of a soulmate. No one would be happy with a connection so shallow. It’s just not enough.

And deep down Talon knows that he’s never been enough for anyone. Not even himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont think talon has low self esteem. this is a separate but similar sounding issue. 
> 
> also starting to work in more aro stuff :')
> 
> i hope you guys don't mind all the bits in (parentheses)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a while cause brain no do good

_(“Show yourself,” he manages to get out on his second try. The words keep getting caught behind his teeth and his throat is sore. The forest doesn’t answer and he spins in a circle, glaring at the trees. Previously they’d been silent and protective. Now they keep secrets.)_

For a few hours after the fight they are nonstop and quiet. Fight or flight has always struck Talon as more of an order of operations than a choice. Fight _then_ flight, then whatever else comes after. Yasuo leads him down to the wide river where a series of flat rocks stick up out of the shallows. They have no time to look further for a bridge. Talon can picture the horses vividly, mouths foaming and coats glossy as they trample through the underbrush. It’s better to escape while the bodies are still warm.

At the riverbank Talon moves quickly. He counts only seventy breaths while he wipes his knives and rips a strip of fabric out of his cloak to tie his shoulder. It’ll get the job done until later. Yasuo waits for him before he starts to cross the river, jumping nimbly from rock to rock with a certain gracefulness that Talon wouldn’t normally expect from him. Towards the middle of the river the rocks are especially spaced out and they’re forced to swim. Getting wet is inevitable but it doesn’t make Talon hate it any less. 

On the other side of the stream the plains stretch out dauntingly before them. Because they’re off the beaten path the red grass is wild and tall and endless, growing almost up to Talon’s chest and rippling with wind. Anything could lurk in the fields and it leaves him feeling uneasy. 

But still they must move, wading far into the grass like they’re still in the river. Yasuo is tense for only the first hour. After that he starts to investigate the contents of the salvaged wineskin. His shoulders slowly relax and Talon glares daggers into his back. Why does it bother him so much? He shouldn’t care but he does anyway. A wave of bitterness washes over him because _the least_ that the universe could have done was _not_ pair him with someone who is homeless and foul _and_ a drunkard as well. Maybe Talon would be more accepting if it was only one of those things but all three together feels like a personal insult. What does that mean for him? Whatever gods lurk above the clouds must not think highly of him. Maybe they see his future and know that he’s going nowhere. Talon doesn’t want to think about it.

Seeing Yasuo drink turns his mood sour and sullen. It doesn’t help that an exhausting pressure still lingers in the back of his head. It’s an itch that Talon can’t scratch. He flips a blade between his fingers, idly cutting stalks of prairie grass while he walks. As the afternoon becomes evening his composure worsens to the point where even Yasuo’s languid calls for translation fail to cut the tension. The Ionian points at one of the sparse trees dotting the plains. This one right next to them towers taller than anything else Talon’s seen from Ionians so far. It breaks up the monotony of the landscape. Flat land has always felt like a trap. 

“Tree.” Yasuo should already know this word so he must be confirming it. Or maybe he’d meant another word earlier, Talon doesn’t know, nor does he care. 

Yasuo’s finger moves to the mountain this time. A little closer, but still a day’s journey at least. 

“Mountain,” Talon bites out after a moment. He sounds like ice. He sounds like winter, as blank and featureless as the darkest Freljord months. 

Yasuo turns around, face strange. Talon doesn’t recognize the look in his eyes so he stops, body frozen in place. The only thing that flies through his head is how easy it would be to lay his soulmate to rest right here and right now. Only Talon would know what they were and only the sky would know what they would have been. After all, the weapon is in his hand already. Just tilt, twist, throw. He’s done it so many times that it’s like breathing.

Something cracks through Yasuo’s expression. For a moment Talon thinks it might be _pity_ and he doesn’t want it. A gentle breeze trails through the air. The man tips his chin out at Talon’s shoulder. “Your—” an Ionian word, probably meaning _wound._

“It’s fine.” 

Yasuo makes a dissatisfied noise. He stretches his arms up lazily and sighs and for an instant Talon stares at the way the muscles in his arms are rigid beneath his skin. He glances away, stomach flipping—from hunger. Standing still has allowed the events of the past day to finally catch up to him. He’s running on a paltry amount of rest and food and his shoulder aches and his legs ache and his head is about to explode. They have no time to rest and the overwhelming weight of stress is harrowing. He is standing at the top of Noxus’ tallest tower. He is a gargoyle on the wall waiting to drop. He is—

A gust of wind peels Talon’s hood back with its cool fingers. He blinks, spell broken. “Hummingbird,” Yasuo says. “Stop.”

Talon frowns. Stop what? In front of him Yasuo begins tamping down some of the tall grass with his sandals. “No—” he starts. “We have to go forward. _Forward.”_

His soulmate sighs again. He’s probably exhausted as well. It’s doubtful that he’s used to Talon’s pace. 

“No.”

And it’s as simple as that. Though Talon’s instincts scream to _keep going, fly farther—_ threatening Yasuo with death will be useless. Talon already knows this. He scans his surroundings. Waving red grass and the occasional tree. Aside from the mountain everything looks the same and he feels powerless. Perhaps it’s the effects of the prairie getting to him. Flat land never fails to make Talon feel unsettled. In cities he is a shadow that cannot be known and cannot be touched. Out here he sticks out like a sore thumb but it doesn’t even _matter_ because Talon is nothing in the eyes of the world. Something akin to fear boils in his chest. All of a sudden he feels so _small._

This time when the wind sweeps through his hair it is softer.

“A tree. For you.” Yasuo points at the cloud-piercing conifer nearby as if he understands that Talon needs a place to roost. He’s sitting cross legged on his bedroll, grass crudely flattened into submission below him, wineskin in his lap. 

Talon finally moves again, pulling his feet off the ground heavily, like they’d grown roots. _Fine,_ he thinks, somewhat subdued. There’s no point in trying to keep going. He’s quickly learning that Yasuo is a mule that enjoys digging his heels into anything timely. Secretly he finds himself almost relieved. _You’re useless if not at your best._ The general says that and even so, Talon usually ends up beyond his own limits.

He moves closer to the towering tree and leans his back against its thick trunk, keeping an eye on Yasuo and the plains. The sky is turning progressively darker. It’d be easier to relax if he wasn’t still thinking about earlier. Any competent guide could have found their trail. At least while it was fresh. What if there are enemies hunting them down right now? He’ll have to sleep with one eye open, not just because of Yasuo. 

Another breeze stirs up the grass and his thoughts. Talon reaches behind himself to retrieve the sword on his back. It’s so _long_ yet light. He pretends not to look at Yasuo as he pulls the blade free of its scabbard. In his peripheral vision he watches for any sudden movements. 

_How did he do it?_ Talon raises the sword slightly, as if daring the wind to blow again. It does not. He tilts and twists the pretty blade, carving nothing out of—nothing. Exhaustion and vapid insignificance swells deeper. Staying alive is so _hard._

Yasuo calls out something in alcohol soaked Ionian and Talon sees the way he’s staring. His soulmate motions with both hands gripping an imaginary hilt. Talon tries to mirror the pose, stacking his hands on top of each other and raising the blade up higher. Above them the sky is beginning to drown in stars. 

No changes. A breeze blows but it’s not because of him. In the back of his mind Talon thinks that he might be drowning too. Or maybe this is what it feels like to suffocate while still breathing. He can’t wait to get out of this prairie. 

Yasuo’s gotten to his feet, wineskin abandoned in the grass. He slowly closes the distance and Talon wonders how far he’s willing to test his luck. Wonders if he’s _really_ that stupid. About nine paces away he stops and holds out his hand.

An unintelligible word. Between Talon’s ears it sounds like _please._

“No.” He’s not insane. He’s not a hopeless wanderer with ratty clothes like Yasuo.

But his soulmate doesn’t back down. He says something and when Talon doesn’t understand it he mutters a string of words and clears his throat.

“In Noxian,” he says, motioning with his hands towards the sword and then slapping his palm to his own chest, right above his heart. Something incomprehensible again. “In Noxian,” Yasuo repeats. Talon knows that motion. A soldier’s swear, a vow. 

“A Promise.”

“Promise,” Yasuo echoes back. He holds out his hand once more, palm outstretched and nonthreatening. 

_(Quiet laughter whistles between the leaves. Talon spins again, blade poised in his grip. He hates the feeling of being watched. Maybe more than that too. It’s simply better to not be known. That’s why he’d escaped to the forest in the first place. Trees don’t stare. It’s safer, or at least he’d thought it was._

_“Will you attack me if I do?” the voice asks. It’s familiar in a way that Talon can’t comprehend. In fact, the more he thinks about the voice the more confused he becomes._

_“I—” Nothing escapes him beyond that. His head hurts. His throat burns._

_More laughter surrounds him but it doesn’t sound mean. It sounds—understanding._

_“I’ll wait.”)_

“I promise,” Yasuo says, voice deep and calm, and there exists something so painfully, _disturbingly_ genuine that Talon is nauseous. 

He remembers the experience of that fight on the road days ago. He’d been unable to focus on anything except the noise and the _feeling_. Talon would be lying if he said he didn’t want to feel it again. The _rush_ of being alive and maybe even more than that. More than only surviving. 

_(The dagger is awkward in his hand now because it’s pointed at nothing. He racks his brain, trying to remember where he’s heard this voice before._

_“Who are you?”)_

As if under a spell Talon hands him the sword. A knife is ready behind his back but Yasuo steps away, giving him room to breathe. He wades into the tall grass and turns his back to him and Talon suspects he’s left himself exposed on purpose. If there’s one thing he will admit about Yasuo is that he already understands how Talon’s boundaries seem to work.

 _“You may kill me,”_ is what Yasuo means. _“I’ll let you.”_

He watches, unblinking, as his soulmate raises his sword up to pierce the night. He says something—Talon can’t tell—and for him the wind answers. It sings back from every corner of the world, growing louder and louder as it gathers around them. Talon flattens himself against the tree behind him, knife dropping into the grass, fingers clawing at the bark, hair whipping across his face.

He won’t close his eyes this time. He wants to _see it._

The land and leaves tremble. The prairie rattles. Talon can’t breathe. Cold air cuts deep and sears his skin and _there it is._ Yasuo twists his blade and the wind roars so loudly that Talon can’t hear anything else or feel anything else or _be_ anything else. It’s the _sky._ If he closed his eyes he could be in the clouds. He could be flying.

Yasuo glances over his shoulder at him and something has changed again. There is life in his eyes, an uncontrollable tempest. Suddenly he is brand new and strange and for a _moment—for a moment—_

His soulmate turns away again and readies his sword at the endless field beyond him. Talon is fascinated by the rigidness in his broad shoulders. Aided by the bleeding sunset he can see his soulmark on the man’s back.

His face feels hot. For a moment—

Yasuo shouts a single word as he swings his blade. The field breaks before him and all the wind escapes back into the heavens. Talon is sorry to see it go, heart pounding and alive. Incredibly, impossibly alive.

For a while his ears ring and time is frozen as Yasuo stands there, blade held now a little awkwardly without his scabbard. Eventually he turns around and returns to Talon. A wide clearing has been carved out of the grass. He says nothing when he holds the sword out and Talon says nothing when he takes it. _He gave it back._ Confusion crawls into his head, dragging reality with it. Talon glances at the sword in his hand. _He gave it back._ The fact repeats itself over and over as he watches Yasuo move his bedroll into the clearing.

Eventually he sheathes the sword and straps it against his back again. Doesn’t feel right to have it out. It’s useless to him. His body feels lighter than air while he scales the tree and settles against a knot of low branches still far out of reach.

There, hidden from Yasuo and the fiendish plains, Talon thinks. 

For a moment maybe he saw what the gods saw if perhaps they looked before they chose who belonged with who. This version of Yasuo is in one lonely word—breathtaking. _Breathtaking,_ the idea echoes in his head poisonously. _Breathtaking because I’ll cut the air from your lungs._ It is dangerous to think about roads that will lead nowhere. And he’d _given it back._ It’s still hard to understand. Giving Yasuo his sword had been a momentary lapse of judgement. If he hadn’t been so worked up and hungry for fresh air he would have never made such a mistake. It was an error that should have been deadly in every way. A mistake like that should _never_ go unpunished.

_“One day your flaws will be fatal.”_ That’s what the general has said and Talon understands that people will take whatever they can get. The money from your pockets, the shoes off your feet, the blood from your body. But his soulmate hadn’t taken anything, even though the sword was rightfully his, so maybe Yasuo doesn’t understand how the world works.

 _But how can that be?_ A nagging voice whispers to him beneath the dark sky. _If he has the wind and you don’t?_

Talon doesn’t get it. Silently he checks the cut on his shoulder. It hurts to peel away the makeshift bandage and dried blood sticks to the fabric. He leans close to inspect it in the low light. Truthfully it doesn’t look good, even in the dark. He’ll need to clean it out again when possible. There’s only a little water left in his wineskin after such a long day but Talon spares a few swallows-worth to drizzle on his skin. It _hurts._ Worry prickles along the nape of his neck. Tomorrow he’ll need more water and will have to find yarrow or some other Ionian herb that can help stave off infection. He should have looked for it earlier but they hadn’t had the _time_ and now it’s too dark.

Tomorrow then. _Yarrow and water and whatever else._ He reassures himself as he debates on ripping a fresh bandage from his cloak. His clothes are covered in bits of leaves and flecks of grass. After wading through the river everything has stuck to them. He finally picks a mostly clean section of his shirt by his waist and saws a strip of fabric free to rebind his wound. 

Exhaustion comes for him quickly and Talon is glad for it. Overthinking will kill you. 

_But how can that be,_ he hears again. _If you are still alive?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doubt grows roots
> 
> my favorite line of this chapter was this part
> 
> _No changes. A breeze blows but it’s not because of him. In the back of his mind Talon thinks that he might be drowning too. Or maybe this is what it feels like to suffocate while still breathing._
> 
> i despise flat land by the way. i tried to channel as much of my hatred as possible. truly terrifying.
> 
> if you liked, feel free to comment, kudos, etc. thank you so much for all of your support. :^)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote and edited this basically all on mobile so forgive me for any blatant errors. ;W;

_("Nobody," the voice answers. "I might as well be nobody.")_

Morning arrives later than planned for Talon and when it does it brings a nasty headache along with it. He wakes up in a cold sweat so abruptly that for a moment he’s confused as to where he is and his hands scramble to grip on the branches protecting him. Then he hears Yasuo calling to him from the ground and it all makes sense again.

 _“Hummingbird.”_ There’s a vague sense of urgency to the name. Talon blinks blearily at the tree trunk before he descends. His arm hurts. 

His soulmate backs up a few paces once he reaches the ground and Talon can’t help the shiver that travels down his shoulders as cold wind blows across the plains. The sky above is overcast and gray and the clouds bloom with muddy green. A storm brews, Talon squints at the sky. The sun is hidden behind all the dullness but—oh how _late_ did he sleep? It must be almost midday. Talon scowls. _Shit._ He’d overslept—that _never_ happens. Without even thinking he’d wasted important travel time and given any pursuers an excuse to catch up. Guilt mars Talon’s already volatile mood. He wants to lash out at Yasuo. _Why didn’t you wake me earlier? Are you that stupid?_ However he doesn't actually say anything at all, as much as he wants to, because in the end it’s his own fault and his soulmate doesn’t seem to be the timely type anyway. Instead, Talon stews in his shortcomings. There seems to be an alarming amount of them as of late and it all started at the same time Yasuo showed up and he'd seen that hateful mark on his back.

“Forward,” Talon snaps. They already had no time to waste.

Today when they push through the tall grass it is especially awful. Talon can’t decide exactly why he hates it so much more than yesterday. The height of the grass makes it so annoying to walk through, even with Yasuo ahead of him. _Yasuo._ The Ionian must be able to tell how ill-humoured he is because he doesn’t talk, just watches the ever darkening clouds overhead. There are still hours of plains ahead of them and Talon _knows_ that if they get caught in the rain it’ll be his fault because of his _stupid_ mistake. He can’t even remember the last time he’s overslept like that. Not since he was younger. Without fail sleeping always leaves Talon with regrets.

And of course they haven’t crossed a single river, because that’s just Talon’s luck. Not a shred of yarrow either, since he’s been looking. Finding those familiar flowers would be easy in all this red grass—if they grew here at all. Talon’s arm hurts. His head hurts. He looks up at the sky. It can’t be much later than the afternoon but already the day is dark and ominous. Worry is a dog biting his heels and Talon walks a little faster. He eats the last of his hardtack, breaks it up into little pieces to keep from grinding his teeth. Too many things are happening at once. That’s what he hates the most about flat land. When the world bears down on you there’s nowhere to run. 

Yasuo might know an Ionian plant that’s similar to yarrow—or maybe some other herb that can help—except Talon would be a fool to explain that to him because it’s basically an admission that he’s vulnerable. Talon can’t afford that. Maybe Yasuo hasn’t attacked him yet because he thinks that Talon will turn and gut him in an instant. (He can and he will, they both know how those horseback riders died back in the forest). If Yasuo realizes he’s especially weak then what’s there to stop him from picking a fight? And then Talon will be down a guide and a translator.

 _But he gave it back,_ his brain reminds him. It doesn’t make sense no matter how Talon examines it, something so bizarre that he can’t comprehend it. As if not only Yasuo’s words but also his actions are in another language entirely.

His throat hurts terribly by the time they cross a thin stream weaving through the landscape. Talon finally refills his waterskin and after a quick look to make sure Yasuo is turned away he checks his shoulder. The skin around his cut is bright red and swollen, clearly infected. Talon splashes water across it and it surprises him how _badly_ it hurts when his fingers brush against his skin. A shiver of icy pain starts at his shoulder and runs all the way through him.

“Your arm,” Yasuo speaks up. The first words he’s spoken all afternoon. 

Talon spins around, pushing the makeshift bandage back into place. _“No,”_ he snaps coldly. “It’s fine.” Paranoia buries fangs into his skin, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. His head pounds like a second heartbeat. What did Yasuo see? How could he be so _careless?_ Talon is never careless. Everything has to be premeditated and perfect or—or—

The Ionian stares at him, wary confusion in his brown eyes. Maybe something else exists there too but Talon can’t decide what that is. A single drop of rain pelts his head and he looks up. It’s not even night yet and the storm has already arrived.

_(Talon doesn't know what to say to that. The voice had sounded resigned and far too familiar. Slowly the tip of his blade sags downwards. "Go away then.")_

He can’t stop thinking about that look on Yasuo’s face. What _was_ that? The longer Talon wonders the more it escapes him. Both of them are soaked to the bone by this point and it’s still the afternoon, though the sky has already turned dark and foul. A _beastly_ day, perhaps one of Talon’s worst. Only a few other days come to mind when he thinks of what has been more awful than this. The rain drums against the hood of his cloak and adds more noise to his headache. Yasuo looks especially pathetic too. His hair hangs drenched down his back as he wades through the endless fields. They ripple like ocean waves, tossed about in the storm. Talon wonders if he could use his magic to stop the accursed rain. Wind is not too far off from the weather. Maybe he hasn’t offered or tried out of spite. _Maybe_ he knows that Talon is off balance and now he’s looking to increase his odds of overpowering him. Damn Talon's head _hurts._ He almost feels like he’s floating. 

_I’ve messed up again,_ he thinks. _Again and again._ The general wouldn’t want him like this. Nobody would. Ever since he’d found Yasuo he’s been plagued by mistakes. Following him in the first place was a mistake. Then he'd gotten wounded, handed a prisoner his own weapon, and overslept. That makes three crucial errors in only a day’s time.

The ground is muddy beneath his boots, causing Talon’s steps to be staggering and rough. He’s never been more wet. It’s a type of rain that gets under your skin and into your head. They can’t stop either. The sparse trees won’t offer enough shelter and there’s still a long way to go. Maybe if Talon hadn’t slept so long they’d already be sheltered somewhere.

He’s glad that the general isn’t around to see what he’s become, though most of the time it feels as if he’s watching anyway. As if Talon will return to find all his mistakes listed back to him and one of his master’s cold knives will carve the word— _flawless—_ out of him, never to return.

Lightning courses through dark clouds. Talon jumps as the sky booms, thunder rumbling over the earth. It’s loud even over the pouring rain, a monster lurking in the darkness. He stops, squinting at his surroundings. The ground is swimming beneath his feet.

Yasuo shouts something at him ahead, an obscure noise in the roaring rain. Talon stares at him, features muddy and rugged. He recalls the man he’d seen standing in the field and fighting on the road. Ugly jealousy lives in his head, black heart beating waves of pain across his temples.

He forces himself to move. One foot, then the other, slodging through wet grass and dark mud. A knife is in his grip. _I’m going to kill him before he kills me. I’ll kill him._ This rain has gone on long enough. Talon’s gone on long enough. Everything has only gotten worse since meeting Yasuo so Talon will have to go on without him. He's navigated plenty on his own. It won't be the end of the world. 

It’s decided.

The resolution returns a bit of strength to his steps. Talon stares at Yasuo’s back. It’s too hard to see the mark on his skin so he will pretend that they’re not soulmates at all. Not that it matters. Yasuo will never know and it’s better this way because Talon’s stomach churns thinking about it.

His knife feels heavy in his hand, heart starting to pound harder as the moment draws near. Yasuo is a fool for always keeping his back turned but at least that makes Talon’s plan easier. He waits for a breathtaking instant. At the next lightning strike he flinches but his hand remains frozen. Waiting. He counts the time in his head.

_"Picture a tower,"_ the general whispers.

Twenty-seven breaths later lightning reaches to the horizon and Talon’s knife splits the air, practiced and precise, a thousand times before—

Except he misses. Yasuo whirls around when Talon’s faithless blade ghosts cleanly past his neck. Talon can’t see his eyes. In fact, his entire face is gray and featureless. 

_("Why?" The voice asks, airy even beyond the breeze. It's a question that Talon needs to think about, despite how dangerous that always is.)_

A scream bleeds from his throat. Talon lunges forward. _Let him be lightning_. Greedy steel glints between his fingers. _Let him be wind_. Yasuo yells when they collide and Talon's head explodes with color and pain. He can't tell the sky from the ground and he can't keep track of where his knife goes as they tumble to the dirt. Talon doesn't waste time. He claws and bites, fingers digging against Yasuo's ribs. Feral. Raw. Yasuo's knee strikes him in the stomach and they roll, tangling in the grass and mud until Talon doesn't know where either of them ends and the other begins. His head spins, nausea boiling in his stomach.

He'd had this impression, as long as he'd lived, that it was cold and calculating to take a life. That's how the general explained it. A precise action that rewards nonchalance and apathy. _"You cannot be more than your own weapon,"_ the general had told him. _"Unflinching. Dispassion."_

Only in the thunderous rain does Talon _shamefully_ doubt his master's words. Perhaps doubt has always existed, or maybe it was seeded by Yasuo who, even with his countless flaws, has something that Talon can only dream of having. Maybe it's because of the weather, or because his whole body hurts, or because of the fact that this, despite Talon's best wishes, is not just some bumbling drunkard. Maybe because this is his _soulmate_ it occurs to him that the general, though never wrong, is wrong about this. For there is something frighteningly intimate about attempting to kill someone and Talon did not realize it until it was too late. When Yasuo's skin is wet against his, and his voice is deafening in Talon's ears, and their legs are tangled and their hands are tangled. Not until he's been laid out in the mud, made breathless by the intolerable Yasuo, does Talon find himself wondering if every dead man has felt the same way he does now. The most alive he's ever been. 

He's lost his knife in the fight. Multiple of them depending on how many he pulled, Talon can't remember. His head hurts too much and he can't breathe laying on his back, face to face with the pouring rain and his own failure. He's supposed to kill people. That's all he's supposed to do. So if he can't do that then what is left?

Yasuo's sword is finally recovered, rightfully in his grasp. He towers above him, one foot planted on Talon's chest to keep him down and his blade pointed directly between the Noxian’s eyes. From this angle Talon can't make out his face, can barely spy the narrow line of his mouth. Rain pelts Talon endlessly and he screams something awful at Yasuo. _"Make it stop!"_ in Noxian. Whether he is talking about the storm, something else, or someone, Talon can't tell. Everything feels too terrible. He deserves whatever's coming but what a _miserable_ way to die. 

Except Yasuo doesn't kill him. He says something stolen by thunder and Talon doesn't understand him. The entire world is slowly melting into a fog. Yasuo's meaningless words reach his ears and for some idiotic, bizarre reason, he sheathes his sword. Talon remains on the ground waiting for the catch. He hurts. Somewhere deep inside it listlessly occurs to him that he'd failed to find any yarrow and that's why he feels like this. The thought is detached from the rest of him. He could be floating away if Yasuo's foot wasn't there to keep him in place.

His soulmate crouches down and his hand presses against Talon's cheek, then his forehead. Talon doesn't want his hand anywhere. The pressure alone feels like aching needles on his body. 

"Too close," he complains in Noxian, as Yasuo helps him sit up. The man hauls him to his feet. Beneath his boots the ground spirals and tilts and Talon almost falls if not for Yasuo's arm hastily swooping around his waist.

"You're so stupid," Talon tells him. If Yasuo understands him he doesn't answer. Or maybe Talon doesn't remember it. His voice is floating, however possible that is. He can't keep his words from drifting out of himself.

His injured arm has ended up over Yasuo's neck. Talon doesn't know how but it _hurts._ His feet drag when they walk, stumbling and confused. Yasuo's nose might be bleeding. Talon stops looking at him because he wants to throw up. 

"Too _close,"_ he repeats, slightly more desperate. When did Yasuo get so close to him? What kind of dream is this? It seems to be a never-ending one because they stagger on forever, footstep after footstep till Talon's legs are shaking and he _needs_ Yasuo to make it _stop._ He has his sword now. The rain _needs_ to end before it bores a hole through Talon's skull.

_(He'd say "this forest belongs to me," if it were true but after thinking about it Talon doesn't really know how he got here. He'd been somewhere high up and then his thoughts had travelled so he had travelled. He'd wanted a forest to hide in and so it'd happened—which makes the existence of a disembodied voice confusing, because he hadn't wanted that.)_

Dimly he is aware of the moment they reach shelter. The plains have finally— _finally_ grown into crags and hills. The beginning of the mountain. Yasuo drags Talon along into a shallow cave, blurry and confusing. One moment it seems tiny and plain, the next moment it is bottomless with stone walls that shine suspiciously and impossibly bright. Luminant, star shaped flowers grow out of the rock and Talon can’t remember if they’d always been there or if they’d suddenly grown there faster than he could think. He closes his eyes, overtaken by vertigo. When he opens them again he's somehow lying on the hard ground. Yasuo leans over him and Talon stares at the dark shadow of his chest and the way his soaked clothes stick to his skin.

"Stop." He doesn't beg. Actually he's not sure that he says anything at all. Maybe he only thinks about that word and what it means.

His shoulder is agony and Talon doesn't fully know why. Yarrow. Something about yarrow? He writhes, boots scrabbling for purchase against stone while stern fingers inspect the wound. Someone is whining in Talon's ear. "Cut it off," he pleads. If the general was here he might do it. Or—no that doesn't seem right, the general wouldn't do that. An one armed assassin would be next to useless. No, maybe the general would try and fix him. Wasn't that the whole point of being coerced in the first place? To take a dull blade and sharpen it. Something scrapes the flesh of his shoulder and Talon screeches. Punishment. 

A _snap_ under his nose. He breathes in something, surprisingly sweet. Somehow it blurs the pain, focus shifting from the horrible stabbing in his shoulder and head to how dreamy and surreal he feels. He's shivering as the general unclasps his cloak and peels off his shirt, body shaking uncontrollably from a sudden onslaught of cold. As his waterlogged boots are unlaced and tugged off his feet Talon mouths the word _"Stop,"_ again. It doesn't feel right. He can still hear the rain hellishly droning, albeit not as loud as it was. Desperately he tries to push the general away as his belt is hastily unbuckled. Something is off but his mind can't catch up to what's happening fast enough. _"Too close!"_ his mind supplies. 

He stares up at the cave ceiling while he's freed from his muddy, ruined pants. Bitter tears prickle the corners of his eyes and he doesn't know why he's being so pathetic. It's normal to change out of wet clothes after being caught in the rain. Shivers wrack his body worse than before, causing him to tremble like a leaf.

Talon hears a sharp, deadly intake of breath. It cuts through his delirium, offering him a much needed moment of clarity. That's all it takes for Talon to realize that this isn't some kind of delusive dream, rather a disastrous nightmare.

Because by the light cast from the glowing cave flowers Talon knows without a doubt what Yasuo must be looking at. What he has found on the inside of Talon's thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ADVANCE
> 
>  _"For there is something frighteningly intimate about attempting to kill someone and Talon did not realize it until it was too late."_ that's my favorite line. actually that whole paragraph is one of my favorite things i've written recently.
> 
> speaking of advancements. since i do know exactly how this story ends now i can finally put a tentative end as there's give or take, 10 chapters till the end.
> 
> thanks for all your support, catch u in a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no update schedule yet cause im in school atm, so far my updates have been every two weeks or so.
> 
> if you want more life updates pertaining to writing, or just me talking about talon/lol in general, feel free to find my twitter @shxmes. otherwise my tumblr ask box is always open at @no-shxmes
> 
> thanks for all of your support! i try and respond to every comment and every kudos/etc means a ton.


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